


pizza boys on the offbeat

by onlinemagenta



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dominos, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Genderfluid Pidge (Voltron), Getting Together, Humor, Keith is a Pizza Boy, Korean Keith (Voltron), LITERALLY, Lance (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Lance is a flirtatious shit, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pidge & Lance Broship, Pizza - freeform, Shiro is a Vet in both ways, Veteran and Veterinarian, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlinemagenta/pseuds/onlinemagenta
Summary: Special Instructions: send your cutest delivery boy ;)“Well, at least they came through,” Lance whistles lowly, snapping Keith out of his-albeit endearing- rambling, “You are cute,” he smirks, “In an ‘emo Pokémon-trainer’ way.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off that one Tumblr post by @/a-corndog-named-schibbs

“Man,” Lance groans, twisting his torso until a satisfying crack sounds. He sighs, rolling back his shoulders and stretching out the crook in his neck, “Time really flies when you take two naps a day.”

Pidge snorts from their position in front of the heated furnace, typing rapidly on their bulky laptop, not bothering to spare him a single glance. He huffs, scrunching his nose at the lack of attention, before grabbing the remote from the floor and letting himself fall carelessly onto the slouched beanbag by the couch. Tired eyes from the studying teen flickered up, a distasteful grimace on their face as Lance extended his legs and scrolled through the available channels.

“Ya’ know,” They drawl, “Every time you sit on that it farts out three-year-old dorito dust.”

Lance gasps in mock horror, discarding the remote to protectively clasp the thinning fabric on either side of his hips, “Do not say that in front of my daughter, you filthy gremlin.”

They shrug, returning their focus to the lengthy block of writing on their screen, “I don’t even know why you insist on keeping it, it costs more to sew up every time your flat ass drunkenly pops it then it’s worth.”

He draws a deep breath and raises a finger, “First of all, it’s an important relic of our friendship!” The second finger shoots up, “And second of all, my ass is perfectly rounded for my frame.”

As much as it physically pains Lance to admit- Pidge is right. Not about the ass part- _Lance takes quite an amount of pride in that asset_ \- but the bean bag. This piece of shit should be rotting somewhere in a scrap heap, but Lance is a sentimental guy, and this shoddy lump of freying cloth and compressed foam beads happens to be the first piece of furniture Hunk, Pidge and him bought as roommates during Freshman year. They all slumped together using it as a pillow for a week until their lazy asses could be bothered getting more, suitable, replacements. And Lance will be damned if he lets the heartless little gremlin throw it out.

They dismiss his reasoning immediately, rolling their eyes with an albeit fond shake of their head, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, bean pole.”

Lance pouts dramatically and throws his arms to the side in vexation, wishing for Hunk to return home from where ever he was so he could grab the remote Lance accident tossed a few metres. He instead diverts his attention to the random show he’d fortuitously settled on, turning out to be some bland series about antique shopping. Allowing his butt and the over-used beanbag to fuse together unceremoniously, he slumps down, letting his eyelids slip shut

x

“Please tell me he didn’t sleep the day away again.” An exasperated voice interrupted his boredom induced slumber.

It was at this moment Lance decided to make his consciousness known. He lazily peeked an eye open and examined his childhood friend’s white knuckled grasp on multiple shopping bags and red tinted cheeks.

“He’s on his third consecutive nap.” Pidge informed, inwardly cheering as Hunk’s, unceremoniously dubbed by Lance, ‘Mom Look’ came forward.

Lance huffed and pulled the woollen blanket thrown over himself closer, not questioning it’s appearance, knowing if he accused Pidge of actually caring about him they’d deny it viciously. “It’s the closest to death I get.” He instead says, hiding his stifled grin when Hunk’s head shook in dismay.

“Not close enough.” The larger boy grumps, walking past the lounge room door towards the kitchen.

His squawks of offence were shrouded by Pidge’s cackling laughter. He shoots them a glare, to which their devious smile widens, “Sendick’s gonna have your ass, boy.”

Lance opens his mouth to retort, but the words dry in his mouth when it dawns on him how true that statement is. Since the start Professor Sendak has had it out for him. Does he know why? No. Does it bother him. Also no.

_Okay, that’s a lie._

_It really bugs him._

_He’s just a likeable guy, okay._

“I’ve bullshitted my way through over two decades of my life,” he reasons, “Some bug-eyed douchebag won’t faze me.” He stands from the beanbag, butt numb, a satisfying pop emitting from his spine, he smirks at Pidge and finger-guns with a jaunt wink, “Put that in your report, Pigeon.”

They raise their hand to adjust their glasses, pointedly using the middle finger to do so. Their sweater slips down to bunch in the crook of their elbow, revealing a faded pink bracelet, signalling their pronouns for the day. Her. She. Lance mentally corrects himself. A few years ago he’d continuously accidentally misgender her, so he made three bracelets; pink for feminine, blue for masculine, and green for neutral. She usually wears the green one, so ‘they/them’ are basically the default setting in his mind.

“I’d rather state facts in my essays, thank you very much,” she snarks back, “I have a reputation of knowing what I’m talking about.”

Lance cocks his hip, eyes glinting cheekily, “Well I’m good at pretending to know what I’m talking about.”

Hunk enters the room, gracing them with his soothing presence, he slugs his jacket off and makes a move to hang it on the rack by the front door, “So basically,” he turns, amused smile in place, “Pidge blows people away with her brilliance, while you baffle them with your bullshit.”

Pidge and Lance agree in unison, “Pretty much.”

Hunk chuckles, “So are we watching Star Wars or Star Trek tonight?” He taps is forefingers together sheepishly, “I vote Trek. Some girl said at school said it was bad and I just really need replenish my faith in humanity.”

Pidge, who was back to rapid typing, keys clicking like an engine, nodded absentmindedly, while Lance beamed and wrapped an arm around Hunk’s shoulders, “Sounds good to me man!”

The Samoan boy smiles back, back straightening, penitence melting away at his best friends’ deepened dimples. Lance knew how awkward Hunk felt whenever he asked for something. As kids he’d always let everyone walk all over him, people took advantage of the kindness his Mother’s had kindled within him, his innocent heart continuously got crushed by others’ ignorance and his own innocence. Until this loud-mouthed, bother of a boy stormed into his life and ripped everything apart like a category five hurricane, yet somehow made it all the better in the process.

Lance laughed loudly at a sudden thought, “Plus I need me a refill of Nichelle Nichols.”

The taller of the two nodded avidly, “Agreed, dude.”

The boys put away the groceries and cleaned the dishes left over from the night before, working in silence save the soft murmurs reaching them from the living room. Pidge often began talking to herself when she got stressed, that’s how her older friends knew when to drag her from the laptop and force feed the little minx, sometimes even having sit on her until she agrees to take a freaking nap.

They make hot chocolate, a traditional drink for their weekly movie nights, no matter the weather. Hunk pops in the appropriate amount of marshmallows; two pinks for Pidge, four whites for Lance, and two of each for himself.

“Come on, Pigeon,” Lance coaxes, holding the beverage below her nose in an attempt to coax her with the sweet smell, “Up and at em’.”

She groans, batting his hands away to look at her lengthy written report, “I’m only moving to the couch, just get it set up.”

Lance shakes his head and clicks his tongue loudly, “No can do, it’s your turn to get food.”

Pidge glares heatedly at him over her rounded glasses, and says with all seriousness, “I can’t go outside. I’m allergic to pollen and social interaction,” she pushes back a loose strand of hair, feigning a sheepish expression, “Plus, bad things happen whenever I do.”

Hunk laughs from where he was kneeling by the movie shelf, finger running along the titles slowly.

“Bad things happen because you’re a dumbass,” Lance blanches, poking her bicep firmly.

Pidge lets out an indignant noise, “I’m a certified child genius!” She protests.

“If you’re that smart work your phone and dial a Chinese joint!”

“Phone calls are even worse! I can’t even finger-gun during awkward silences!”

“You’re ordering off a menu, not asking the worker on a date!” Lance refuted, “Plus, finger-gunning is my thing.”

“Lance, I’m a social vegan, I avoid meet.”

“It’s a phone call! Not a party!”

“Mentioning parties just makes me more nervous, you sardonic bitch.”

“Guys!” Hunk cuts in, “Don’t Dominos do those online orders? Just google them.”

Pidge and Lance continue their stare down, they once were like this for an hour straight- and yes- Hunk wasn’t home.

Lance was the first to break, grumbling along with his empty stomach, “Fine!” He groaned, “I’ll do it! Since Piglet is being lazy!”

“You’ve done nothing all day!” She barks back.

“Neither have you, little miss ‘I don’t leave the house’!”

“I was actually working! You just slept.”

“Say it wasn’t worth it to those bags under your eyes.”

“You’ll fail your classes.”

“I study!”

“Oh yeah? Do it now then.”

“No, you’ve caused me emotion trauma, and now my head hurts.”

“That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity.”

“Ya know what! I’ll order the stupid pizza.”

Hunk looks up as he finishes putting the disc in the player, “Do not insult pizza out of anger, Lance. That’s beneath you.”

Lance rolls his eyes and throws himself onto the couch, pulling tanned legs to his chest and unlocking his phone. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pidge saving her work on multiple hard drives and taking a tentative sip of her hot drink. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, content in knowing the distraction of an argument worked as it usually did; she becomes too flustered to write properly.

The Dominos forum is set up simply enough, straight away there was the option saying ‘online order’. He types their post code and selects the nearest store. He adds their order and address, before the bottom box caught his attention.

**Address: 24 Castle Drv, Town House 2B**

**Number: 555-***-*****

**Order: 2 large pepperoni pizzas  
1 large cheese pizza**

**Special Instructions:**

He halts, fingers grazing the screen gently. _Special Instructions? What’s that supposed to mean?_ He considers putting something irrational just for kicks, maybe ‘include a narwhal’ or even ‘take my roommate back with you she’s really annoying just a warning’. He sniggers as another idea settles on his train of thought- may as well add a little something extra for himself.

**Special Instructions: send your cutest delivery boy ;)**

The couch dips beside him, he glances only to see Pidge settling herself on his right, nudging his lowered chin to fit her head into the crook of his neck. She pulls the woollen blanket, previously thrown over Lance’s sleeping body, tighter around her narrow frame and adjusts her hands to peak out enough to hold the cat-shaped mug. He automatically throws his arm over her shoulders to maximise both their comfort, running his fingers through her knotted hair after freeing it from the messy bun it was enclasped in.

Pidge cuddling up to him wasn’t an off occurrence, but she’ll deny it to her grave to anyone who hadn’t physically seen it with their own eyes.

“How do you even act around people who don’t like Star-Trek?” Hunk mutters, mostly to himself, folding his legs onto the couch.

Pidge scoffs into the steam of her mug, glaring over the circle rims of her thin glasses, “Easy,” she says, kicking her chin indignantly, “Follow the prime directive and don’t interfere with underdeveloped societies.”

Hot liquid sloshed from the side of Lance’s drink as his grip on the faded Gryffindor mug falters, laughter spluttering out around his mouthful of hot chocolate. Pidge smirks at her friends’ reactions, wiggling closer to Lance, stealing the warmth from his naturally heated skin.

“Oh shoot!” Hunk wails, “You made marshmallow come out my nose!”

Lance loses it all over again.

x

Shiro had taken the Assistant Manger position at Dominos when he was fresh out of the military and first starting college. It was the same hours as a regular employee, but with a few more responsibilities, and nearly double the wage- perfect to pay himself through his Veterinary classes and maintain a decent enough apartment. He was on the final stretch to graduation, with a prestigious job offer in the nearby city as a Lead Surgeon for ‘Altea Veterinarian Clinic’.

Today, his prosthetic had been giving him grief. He’d witnessed a young pregnant woman trip up the curb on his morning jog, and without thinking, swooped in to make sure she didn’t fall. He doesn’t regret the act, but he isn’t supposed to strain his arm without the supervision of his professional trainer during their gym sessions. So, instead of being out the front of the store, tonight he’d sit in the office, handling calls and online orders. It was a boring and repetitive task, made even more tedious by the constant aching in his amputated nub.

He shook his head in exasperation after reading through one of the orders.

**Special Instructions: send your cutest delivery boy ;)**

“Hey, Keith!” He yells out, spinning around the chair to face the entrance as his brother stuck his head into the room.

The younger boy leant against the door frame, “What do you want?”

“Do you think you’re cute?” He tempted.

Keith smirked and shrugged nonchalantly, “Cuter than you, that’s for sure.”

Shiro internally cheered as his naive sibling took the bait, “Good, then you’re going on a house run.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s a special request!”

x

“How long did they say it’d be again?”

Lance blanches at Hunk’s repetitive question, deadpanning when the older boy’s stomach grumbles over the sound of William Shatner’s tirade on their home-made sound bar. Well, really, Lance accidentally forgot he had his phone plugged into the AUX on the speaker and stood up to walk away, causing it to fall apart upon contact with the floor boards. But with Pidge and Hunk’s expert tinkering- they ended up with an even louder, clearer sounding machine. Lance still takes credit to this day.

“I dunno man,” he shrugs, “How ever long it takes.”

Hunk gave a frustrated pout, eyebrows lifting at a worrisome thought, “What if they crashed on the way here? Or worse... forgot.”

Pidge huffs amusement into Lance’s shoulder as the taller boy throws his head back and laughs jerkily through a groan, the movement making Pidge’s head bob, “They’ll be here soon, man. Just have patience.”

“Wise words, young Padawan.” Pidge grumbles lowly, voice out of range from Hunk’s prying ears.

“Hunk’s worrying is about as useless as the Cantina Band.” He whispers back, loud enough for the bigger boy to hear, knowing that the statement would get on his nerves.

Hunk gasps in over-dramatised horror, “You take that back!” He stands, “The Cantina Band deserves respect!”

Pidge’s fingers being to sway in a mocking of a conductors lead, “Duh-de-duh-de-duh-duh-duh-duh.” She hums softly.

Lance groans as Hunk joins, singing even louder just to spite their Cuban friend with his unjust hatred for that song that Hunk didn’t stop singing for a week straight a few years back- yeah, no- definitely justified.

The gods above seemed to be looking down on him as the doorbell rings through his friends’ over-bearing antics, “Oh, would you listen to that!” He says smugly, extracting himself from the couch’s warmth, “Pizza is here!”

Hunk cheers while Pidge clumsily flops down into the heat where Lance’s body was before. Lance shakes his head fondly, quickly grabbing the twenty dollar note from the counter and headed towards the door- which now had knuckles wrapping against it. _Geez this pizza dude is impatient._

“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters, soothing down his hair as the knocks get firmer, “Yeah, I’m coming!”

He twists the knob quickly, rolling his eyes as he opens the door swiftly, “Give a guy a minute- oh.”

The Domino’s employee had their fist raised, ready to begin thumping again when the solidity of the door disappeared, their hand falling through, body following, and nearly knocked into Lance’s chest- who managed to step back last second- but gently gripped their elbow so they wouldn’t trip up the slight step, “Woah there,” He snickers, “Don’t fall for me so quickly.”

The worker goes rigid in Lance’s hold, stumbling back immediately to get out of his grasp. Their chin was ducked, focusing on securing the pizza’s on their hip, straps having loosened when they tripped. Lance cleared his throat, and the persons’ head shot up.

Sloppily cut bangs obscured his eyes from view, the rest of his messy hair styled in a manner that resembled having just rolled out of bed. He had a black denim jacket draped over the issued uniform and gave of a waft scent of motor oil and paint, Lance took note that the pale hands gripping the boxes were tinted indigo.

“Oh,” Lance runs his eyes across the embarrassed flushed across his nose, subtle lips dropped in a flustered lour, “I didn’t think they’d actually do it,” he reads the name-tag, “Keith.“

 _Keith_ fumbles with their order, seemingly having no coordination in his stature, adjusting his hold so he can push his mused hair back from his face, and Lance finds his attention drawn to the slanted darkness of his eyes. Though, they weren’t brown, but rather pools of ink, devouring the limited porch light in their intensity. He couldn’t decipher pupil from iris, they blended together in an endless swirl of obsidian, an eclipse seeming to have folded over his vision.

Keith’s forehead creases as his thick brows furrow in confusion, “What do you mean?”

His voice is huskier than expected, almost like he was winded and not able to speak properly, Lance’s lips twitch into a slight smile, “Send their cutest delivery boy.” He explains, folding his arms over his chest, letting his weight rest fully against the door’s edge.

The boy seems to choke on his tongue, the fading pink returning in a full-forced crimson. He glares at his shoes, fiercely whispering something along the lines of _‘fucking goddammit Shiro’_ before it became too unintelligible to translate.

“Well, at least they came through,” Lance whistles lowly, snapping Keith out of his- _albeit endearing_ \- rambling, “You are cute,” he smirks, “In an emo-Pokémon-trainer way.”

Keith’s face scrunches in distaste, “Emo Pokémon trainer?” He scowls, “Seriously?”

“A cute one.”

“Gay!” A familiar voice filters from the lounge.

Lance turns to glare at the open arch way, snarling at Pidge’s attempt to interrupt his flirting. He throws on a faux smile and waves her off, “Ignore her, she’s four days past her bedtime.”

“Stop trying to seduce the pizza guy you fuck-knuckle!”

“Yeah, man! I prefer my mozzarella hot, and I’m anxious to press play!”

“Okay, okay.” Lance sighs in defeat.

Keith gapes and blushes furiously as the voices tease the two boys standing on the porch. Lance purses his lips, but holds out the note to Keith, who takes it and slips the boxes from the satchel. He gets the correct change and hands it to the taller. Their fingers brush slightly and Lance tries- _and fails_ \- to ignore the warmth that tingles up his arm with the contact.

“It was nice meeting you, Keith.” He says, words softened by the sharp late evening breeze.

He goes to close the door, but a combat-boot clad foot stuck through the gap, “I- uh- never got your name.” Keith says, a sly smile flitting over his lips.

_Oh._

_Now that just isn’t fair._

“Lance,” He says, “My name is Lance.”

Keith’s dark eyes manage to somehow twinkle under the dim lighting, he steps back, “It was nice meeting you too, _Lance_.”

x

Unfortunately, Lance missed the spectacle of Keith straddling his motorcycle, but arrived at the window where Pidge and Hunk where peeking through the blinds just in time to see him speeding off.

“Well he’s late for something.” Hunk muses.

“Early for his funeral.” Pidge adds.

Lance thumps her over the head with the warm underside of the pizza box, “Quiet, Pigeon.”


	2. Chapter 2

The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling Lance’s skin on contact. The path through the park is muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles that hide the ruts of dryer weather. Blue pulls excitably on her extended leash, prancing in all directions as her short-attention span is directed every which way. Clouds darken overhead and the ever present winter drizzle begins to pelt unrelentingly. Lance pulls his jacket tighter as the harsh wind nips at the exposed edges.

“Blue!” He chides, interrupting his two-year-old boxer’s tyranny on a pile of leaves, “Home time, girl.”

She seems to have picked up on what the word ‘home’ means, and immediately whines, trotting over to knock gently at Lance’s knees- her way of pleading for a little while longer to frolic around. He chuckles and gently leads her to an area sheltered by thick trunks, before squatting down to scratch behind her drooped ears fondly. She preens under the attention, tongue lolling to the side, and eyes closing in the bliss of her owner’s affection.

“We have to get home so I can get ready for class, beautiful.” He coos, hiding the disappointing words behind a sugary tone.

It sucks he isn’t able to spend more time with his pup, but the duties of work and University call crudely from the sidelines whenever they get a splinter of bonding done. Even today’s a full schedule; class, study group, and work. He’d been lucky enough to get a week off of his job while some renovations were made to the enclosure’s internal filtering system, and with the opportunity the owners decided to go all out and change some of the interior also.

Well, ‘lucky’ wasn’t exactly the right word to use, as he actually really loved his job. A professor had gotten him a good word in at the State Marine Rehabilitation Facility, they first took him on as a part-time intern, but after a sudden resignation they promoted him to be a feeder and health check worker- as he’d already got his credentials for those positions. The rest of his marine biology degree is still in the works, and even then, he has an assured full-time job hire at the centre since he’d established firm bonds with multiple animals as their primary carer.

With the animals he worked with all shifted to a temporary place-hold, Lance had been feeling pretty useless as of late, hence the multiple napping pretences. It’s his first day back and he knows he’ll have a handful to deal with, not only have the animals been torn from the comfort of their enclosures- which can drastically stunt recovery due to the stress- but they’re also coming back and being placed in yet another new environment.

Lance has a long night ahead of him, he’s most likely going to be a crucial factor to the settling of the animals with his familiar presence, and that means hours submerged in water adorned in only a freezing, damp wetsuit- it’s honestly not that bad- by now he’s used to it, but the Cuban blood in his veins still protests the idea of being cold- that’s just an ever prevalent earmark.

Blue had given him an early awakening this morning with her desperate whimpers from the back door, the nightly chill had frosted the doggy-door shut, and his poor baby girl had fallen asleep outside the day before. It wouldn’t have taken much effort to push it open, but Blue is a keen and mischievous pup, as soon as Lance let her in she immediately pulled the leash with her mouth from the hook in the entranceway, and sat patiently by the door- a vision of cunning cheekiness and nonchalance.

He’d looked hopelessly at the clock reading five-past-six, before caving into her innocent charade and turned to shrug on his thick jacket over his sweats and long-sleeved shirt.

By now the hour was breaching past seven o’clock, his first class was at ten thirty, that’s totally enough time to do his paper on recently discovered plankton... maybe... hopefully.

“Yep,” he hummed, placing a kiss in between Blue’s eyes, “Home it is.”

x

Hunk had already left for his morning class by the time they returned to the trio’s modest town house- how he had that kind of commitment for science, Lance will never know- Pidge, however, was shuffling drowsily around the kitchen, pulling the milk and cereal out of their respective holds.

“Mornin’ Pigeon,” he greets as Blue made a beeline for her water bowl outside, Lance smiles after her and shrugs off his damp coat to hang, propping the leash next to it, “Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

Pidge pouts as they sleepily pour milk over the top of near-stale froot loops, green bracelet slipping past the kink of their wrist- obviously not fastened properly, “You woke me up when you left.” They grouch sourly.

“Whoops.” Lance laughs sheepishly, flicking the switch on the kettle, before ducking into his room and peeling off his soaked shirt and socks. He removes the navy towel thrown carelessly along the back of his desk to dry up his hair, the dark curls previously being plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t bother with a shirt and lazily flicks the towel over his shoulder, making his way back into the kitchen, which now had Pidge eating languidly at the bench, scrolling aimlessly on her laptop.

The kettle had come to a boil almost in sync with Lance fishing out his favourite mug, he hums contently and spoons his preferred amount of coffee and sugar into the shark shaped porcelain. It never failed to amuse him as he poured the steaming water into the awaiting delicate jaws.

“You’re laughing to yourself again.” Pidge accused, hazel eyes glinting beneath lop-sided glasses.

Lance let his smothered smile bleed onto the rest of his face, “I basically make out with this mug every time I use it.”

“You’re gonna’ be making out with Sendack’s foot if you don’t finish that paper.” They snickered, taking a large mouthful of froot loops as Lance’s grin morphed into a grimace.

“I should probably start that, shouldn’t I?” He groans and throws the fridge open dramatically, pulling out the fresh grapes he’d bought the day prior.

Pidge sputtered around their astounded laugh, ”You haven’t even started?” They slapped a hand over their forehead in exasperation, looking up at Lance with an appalled cast, “He’s gonna have your head.”

“Bury me with both middle fingers up.” Lance droned, fetching his laptop from the couch’s arm, then settling besides Pidge on the stools.

They just snorted and snarked at him mercilessly, “If there’s enough of you left.” They picked off one of Lance’s grapes, “Also, you say that like I’m going to your funeral.”

Lance gasped in mock offence, “Harsh, Pidgeot,” he nudged them with his elbow playfully, “Super harsh.”

Before too long Blue began prodding greedily at Lance’s calf propped up on the stool’s foot rest, even heaving a paw to swipe at his thigh, drawing him from his type-induced haze of frantic writing. It’d nearly been two hours since he’d begun the paper, and finally his first draft was finished. Pidge rounded behind him as he finally un-hunched, letting his shoulders crack as they broadened back to their true stature.

“You really need to stop doing that,” They quipped, flicking the shell of his ear afterwards, “Ever heard of arthritis?”

Lance huffs, squinting as he made sure all the files were saved correctly and coherently, “Makes me feel like a glow stick,” He met their amused gaze, “Can you read over this?”

They pondered sarcastically for a second, jutting out their bottom lip, and bobbing their head side to side, more strands of hair slipping from their high pony-tail, collecting with the tawny wisps of bangs grazing the upper rim of their glasses, “Only if you bring me home peanut butter pop tarts.”

“Deal.” Lance grins widely, “I’ll even get you that weird peanut butter flavoured milk Hunk banned you from if you make corrections.”

Pidge’s eyes widen comically, “Oh hell yes, he makes me bring home my receipts, I can never sneak a carton into the house!” They scan their surroundings with an accusing glare, leaning in to whisper like it’s a secret, “He’s like a peanut butter milk Nazi!”

Lance laughs loudly as Pidge pushed them-self onto his lap, “To be fair, you were addicted,” He ruminated, draping himself across their back, and letting his chin sink into their shoulder, “And lactose intolerant.”

They scoff, waving a dismissive hand over to the side, “Semantics.”

A few minutes passed with continuous clicking coming from Pidge’s end, they muttered along under their breath, backtracking when spotting a mistake, sometimes even shaking their head in disappointment at the severity of them.

“Okay,” Pidge starts, “Do you take constructive criticism?”

“I only take cash or credit.” Lance mumbles into the soft fabric of their over-sized sweatshirt.

“Well,” the drawl, twisting their torso to face him.

“...done?” Lance urges, “Well done?”

Pidge lets out a high pitched sound on contemplation, “More like medium rare.”

“That’s not bad,” Lance insists, “Medium rare is a pass, right?”

“I’d say so,” They agree, re-saving all the documents with the newly made edits, “Now, you need to take a shower before class,” They add, sliding off his lap, “You smell like wet dog.”

Lance beams, Pidge is momentarily stunned by the sincerity of it, “You’re the best, Pidgey.” He says, pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of their head, “I owe you big time.”

Pidge just nods dumbly after him, fingers pressing to the spot his lips were seconds before, watching addled as Lance rounded the corner to the bathroom, “Yeah,” they frown, “You do.”

x

Life on campus never seemed to sedate. There was a constant throng of dead-eyed students lumbering through the stone paths weaved between looming buildings, and narrow gardens in their early stages of flourish- planted in order to ‘up’ the livelihood of the college.

“I don’t know how you’re so calm, man.” Pidge reprimands as the duo approach the biology wing, “Your impending death awaits you.”

Lance let’s his head fall back with a exaggerated bleat, “My chill is fake.” Pidge rolls their eyes at the dramatics, outrightly unimpressed.

“For real,” He refutes, side stepping in front of them to halt their walking, “I’m beyond stressed, beyond hysteria, into the grey misty indifference of complete shutdown of all but emergency services in my brain.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic.” They blanch, shouldering his torso as they push past him with an eye-roll.

Lance grins and dashes forward to match their pace once more, “If this was a movie, I’d surely get an Oscar for that scene.”

They laugh sharply, completely apathetic, “If your life was a movie, it’d have a horrible plot.”

The marine major just tilts an eyebrow under the scrutiny, “Yeah, with an awesome soundtrack.”

“Sue me if Shakira’s entire franchise stuffed into one film featuring you, probably Shrek, and one of those ‘vines that butter my egg roll’ compilations, doesn’t sound appealing.” They smirk, subtle fond undertones coming to a deceiving surface.

“Oh give me a break,” Lance chuckles, not denying the volatile truth of the statement, “I finished the paper, anyways.” He peeves, “And you said it was medium rare!”

“The content is,” Pidge assures, “But it’s also a page short.”

“There was a page limit?” Lance gasps, “Oh mother fucking cattywampus.”

“You seem a tad bamboozled.” They press, keeping their friend from sinking into a pit of self deprecation.

Lance chuckles, “I’ve gotten myself into a kerfuffle, that’s for sure.”

“You’re just a natural nincompoop.”

“You take that title, apple-knocker.”

Pidge smirks, though the usual condescending layers weren’t lying beneath. It’d been an unspoken tradition between the two since they first breached friendship, that when one of the two was distressed or in disarray, the other would distract them with abnormal words. _(“That dickhole is the human embodiment of a snollygoster.” “Snolly... snolly... what?” “Stop laughing I’m supporting you.”)_ Lance would never admit it, but he always makes sure to have a list in the notes on his phone for emergency purposes.

“You’ll be fine, Lance.” Pidge comforts quietly, “With your job you have enough credits to cover your entire class. Plus, I know you’ve been stressed about being separated from the animals for so long, and if there’s any remanence of a heart under that cold, dead exterior, Sendak will too.”

Lance laughs, wrapping a thankful arm around his friend, “Thanks, Pidgey,” He ruffles their sandy hair, which was pulled into a futile attempt of a braid, “You’re a good egg.”

x

The high-street café was quintessentially English. The sign above the window was peeling somewhat; gold lettering generously curled on a midnight blue background. The floor inside was a black and white checkerboard of tiles that showed the wear of three decades worth of enchanted on-goers and regular returnees. The counter-tops had a dated look and the server uniforms likely hadn't changed in Lance’s own lifetime. White bloomers and iced belgian buns dominated the display, but Lance’s personal favourite were the eccles cakes; sugared puff pastry with sweet currants packed inside.

Juniberry café was originally opened by a beloved local couple many years ago, tragically, one of the men died in a car accident after a drunken group of high-schoolers ran a red light. Lance wasn’t lucky enough himself to meet Alfor, but his daughter and widower husband had told him many stories of how respectable the man was, the two of them had even become constants in Lance’s life.

Allura was a woman of pure authority and power. She’s one of those people who look graceful even while eating powdered donuts and going up the stairs two at a time. When they first met Lance had a painstakingly unrequited crush on her, but that soon enough buffered into more of a sibling fondness. He didn’t really see her often anymore, seeing as she’d taken the head position in her late Father’s veterinary clinic.

She’d once told him about how the two bickered over the title’s of their two established businesses, eventually, Alfor resolved for using the name of their minuscule European country that had been lost to the ravages of war not long before they’d migrated, and Coran got the honour of a beautiful wildflower that had bloomed only on Altean soils.

The café’s decor was primarily based off bakery etiquette; just with couches, booths, and tables added to the mix. It was a hotspot for Garrison Uni students, mostly for its close proximity to campus and free wifi, not to mention the widely renowned pastries, baked goods, and coffee blends.

It’s also where Lance’s study group convened weekly, Pidge even tagging along for no reason other than the free caffeine and muffins Coran doted upon them, claiming they were his ‘favourite and most respectable customer’- and while Lance would normally laugh openly at the statement- Pidge _did_ smuggle him a bite or two, so he refrained.

Besides, everyone knows the real reason is because Pidge’s older brother is studying abroad, the ginger misses his best employee, and the two Holt siblings both look and behave terrifyingly similar. So he uses the younger as a surrogate, and Pidge themselves is more than happy to take on the pampering.

Lance was the first to arrive, as per usual when alining the meeting time with his schedule, no point in going home for half-an-hour before having to head out again. He’s able to snatch the couch circle by the window during the slow hour, taking the ‘college students’ sign from the counter to reserve the area, and then lumber across the love-seat, finally relaxing after a few hours of stifling tension with Sendak.

The calm atmosphere is suddenly disrupted by an alarmingly harsh slam of the bell accented door, jingle running gently against the abrupt nature of its disturbance, an exhausted Pidge groaning on the other end.

“I forgot my earphones,” is the first thing they say, “More like throw me off a cliff.”

Lance let’s out his own tired grunt as response, feeling the couch dip as Pidge perches themselves on the arm-rest.

“I actually had to listen to Morvok’s monotone screech,” their glasses fell lopsided onto their lax jaw, face scrunching with distaste, “Can you even imagine?”

“That’s what you get for taking up extra-credit classes.” Lance rebuts, swinging his legs back to hang over the edge as drowse collects in the corner of his eyes, “It’s your own doing.”

“I’ll take a cappuccino with as many caffeine shots they’re legally allowed to give me,” Pidge says as they slip into the snug crease Lance left when he stands to stretch, “And then double it.”

“Oh no, no, no,” he argues, inwardly cringing at the memory of the last time he allowed Pidge to get the ‘sleep is for the weak’ beverage, “Not happening.”

Pidge clearly doesn’t have the energy for coherent arguing. Instead opting to turn on their best whiney tone and open bleary eyes to shoot churlish daggers in his direction, “Yes happening.”

Lance shakes his head adamantly, not budging his decision, “As your best friend, and right-hand-man in defeating Hunk at Monopoly, I condemn you _banned_ -“ he pauses, never missing a chance for dramatic flair, “From that drink.”

“But it’s on the ‘finals’ menu! It’s for students!”

“Finals aren’t for another five months.”

“I’m going to _die_ of _exhaustion, Leandro_.”

“You seriously just _butchered_ my birth name, white bread.”

They heave a pathetic sob and push out their bottom lip as a last resort, Lance just stares back blankly, “Pick from the regular menu,” He says, “Or go without.”

Pidge caves, throwing an arm over their face for emphasis to their displeasure, “Surprise me.”

Lance snorts, orders their drinks along with a box of cinnamon donuts, then sits back down and begins to arrange his notes for the group. Not even a minute later, half of the meeting students had already filed in and gotten their own ‘life juice’ (as Pidge insists it is), before digging into the still-warm donuts on the coffee table.

“You spoil us, Sanchez.” One girl, Sofie, says. Nudging her seat a little closer to Lance’s own.

Lance laughs heartily and adjusts his arms as Pidge slinks behind him, curling into the back of the couch, pushing their friend closer to the edge, “It’s my week to supply the goods,” He reasons, “No biggie.”

They study and discuss the current content they’re covering in class, all the while Lance subtly brushes off Sofie’s continuous advantages. If it were another situation, and they weren’t going over vital information he may need for the up-and-coming CAT he might of acted on them, but right now, it’s rather annoying- and he knows Pidge can sense his irritation- as every few minutes they poke his hip, and he tilts his head to the side to accept a bite of apple-crumble muffin.

He’s so lost in copying down the notes from an older student’s laptop he barely registers the new-comer entering the café, only looking up when the gusts of cool air stubbornly creep up his hoodie. He’s just about ready to snap at the person to _shut the fucking door,_ but stops when he turns and they’re already looking at him. Hostility and annoyance immediately morph into recognition.

“Shiro?”

  
X

  
Keith has always been impatient. It somewhat felt so though he operated on a higher level to everyone else, but was unable to run that way, since the rest of the world around him is apparently stuck on one speed- _not fast enough._

He likes instant gratification. Likes things to happen right away.  
Likes results. When Polaroid cameras became extinct, a part of his soul crumbled. Waiting is just not something he’s good at, and it can kind of be a problem sometimes, since most things in life happen to take _time_.

It’s also the reason why he wastes away hours in front of a canvas, brush in hand, and all senses dimmed to nothing but sheer focus on his unrefined style. Time seems irrelevant as he’s consumed by the joy of seeing his vision translate with hands, the despair of a wrong brush stroke, the anxiety of using a new color, the confidence of a repeated motion, the tension of a measured stroke, the strain of fine brush work, the stressful judgment of seeing the big picture, the want to create a balance, the stray hair of the brush on canvas, the pace of emotions within - he’s in complete control of himself.

So _maybe_ his impatience is _kinda_ about control. _Maybe_ he has control issues. But he’s come to accept the fact he can administer absolutely nothing, not even himself.

Like Shiro would say, _“What? With your little-to-no impulse control? Please.”_

To paint is to show a bit of your soul - and Keith isn’t exactly an open person - so where words fail, colors and strokes convey. His deep seated sub conscious comes to life. It’s a way of connecting with concealed his inner self.

And more often than not, Keith remains surprised with what he sees.

He was a troubled kid; short attention span, a knick for pissing off older students, and a knack for picking preferential fights with them. Tossed through the foster system from home to home until they inevitably got sick of him, until - by some miracle - he landed in the arms of the Shirogane family.

Keith doesn’t know what _god_ or _deity_ or _other-worldly-being_ blessed him with the luck of Kimiko Shirogane’s file landing on his social worker’s desk - but it did - and at the ripe age of twelve years old, Keith got the one thing he’d been searching for his whole life; he got a family.

Kimiko was an art teacher for a private school in their town, for one birthday she gifted him with a small set of canvases and his first ever painting set - from then on his story began writing itself, or rather, _paint itself_.

As time went by, painting chronicled his life. Like a journal - a diary, he could see the ups and downs of life through his own impressions. Between the images that lived within, the medium of expression, the sleight of hand, the madness of work, the evolution of subjects and objects of interest and the things that he always wanted to convey.

His art is _raw_ , like having layers of skin peeled back to reveal what lies beneath, he’s always thrown himself into every single thing he’s ever created, and having his pieces exposed leaves him completely vulnerable in a way nothing else does.

His parents and Shiro all encouraged - _pleaded_ \- Keith to enter his work in some form of competition; to share his naturally delivered gift with the rest of the world. But they were the only three he ever let lay eyes on them, and even then, he couldn’t bring himself to show his most exposing pieces.

They eventually caught on, and continued to support his venture further into the artistry world - even though it was only for Keith’s own ‘selfish’ pleasure.

College had always been a figurative question mark in Keith’s mind, if he could spend all day every day painting, he’d lead a happy and fulfilling life - but just as his adoptive mother constantly reminded, _“Your best work comes from your individual life experiences.”_

_Well, College it is then._

So far his Urban Design class at Galra Tech has given him nothing but a migraine and terrible sleeping patterns. Not the course, necessarily, but the teachers - all constantly on his ass about every little thing. Strict, almost like they ran on a conservative regiment, disciplining their students with threats surely not appropriate for the situation. But it’s where his late mother completed her schooling, so he stuck it out.

Keith likes to entertain the thought that it’s what she would of wanted.

After all, it’s the only thing he knows about her.

x  
Keith isn’t exactly an outgoing person - a side affect of shutting himself away his whole life. He’s awkward in almost every situation, social cues aren’t his thing, interacting with people he’s known for years can even be a struggle - so working out the back of a pizza place seemed like an optimal solution for both funds and his antisocial behaviour.

Some days are worse than others.

Shiro got him the job. Keith himself was content in just layering on toppings and rolling out dough, but every now and then his irrefutable brother would come up with _some_ sort of excuse for Keith to make a house-run. Maybe a couple times a month he’d be forced to get on his bike, strap a heater bag atop the rear fender, and use the work GPS to find his destination.

It was a good day when Keith met Lance McClain.

He didn’t know what to expect when he pulled up in the modest neighbourhood, he’d driven past a couple fraternity houses on the way and preyed it wasn’t a frat party he was showing up to - _Shiro would be sucking up to him for_ months _if it was_. And no matter how appealing it may of sounded to have his older brother do his bidding, it simply isn’t worth the trauma.

There were two identical cars in the driveway, one a washed blue and the other faded yellow. Keith decided a long time ago that the only thing cognate to drunken college kids was sappy, suburban ‘ _matchy match_ ’ couples - _sickening_.

So with a scanty amount of patience and oppositely mirrored petulance, Keith frowned, and walked up the path. The first thing he noticed was the doormat, worn out and well used, with some saying scrawled in a different language across it. Now, he doesn’t remember much from High school Spanish - but he recognises the sentence structure, and supposes it’s some form of Español.

He rapped against the panelled wood without renewed enthusiasm, scowling as he listened to the muffled voices on the other side continue to persist, leaving him shivering slightly in the harsh breeze, with a promise of heating himself by the pizza oven once he got back to work lingering in the core of his impatience.

He was knocking again - considering kicking at the slight step-up to create more racket - when the door swung open, yellow light filtering into the darkness, and causing Keith to lose his centre of gravity.

Panic alarms blared in his mind as the floor suddenly seemed to rise towards him, but a subtle warmth stopped the oncoming disaster. It took a few seconds to realise that, it was, in fact, a _person_ supporting his weight.

“Woah there,” the customer says, “Don’t fall for me so quickly.”

Keith flushed, jumping backwards, though not before accidentally allowing himself to revel in the bodily warmth shrouding out the bitter autumn wind. He shifts the pizzas on his hip, keeping the boxes from slipping out the satchel.

The customer coughs slightly, as if trying to gain attention, and Keith immediately raises to alertness - he didn’t want to be responsible for a bad review on Domino’s page... _again_.

But, _woah_.

_He wasn’t expecting that._

In front of him stood _not_ , a middle-aged woman with a white collared shirt and layered sweater (as he’d envisioned), but a man his age, maybe even a little older.

He was taller than Keith by a generous few inches, smoky eyes twinkling under the sheeted night like paper lanterns strewn lazily along a narrow street. His skin was smooth and bronze, scorched by freckles along the bridge of his nose, scatters of them flooding out of his tank top, sitting tight on his - _broad_ \- shoulders. His lips were set in a lazy curve to one side, mousy hair curling the same way lightly across his forehead, looking as though hands had been running through in an attempt to tame the twined strands.

 _Oh_.

Time seemed to sink through syrup as their gazes met, the moment stretched on like the sea over a horizon.

Until the boy opened his mouth again.

Keith didn’t know whether or not to be offended by the term ‘emo Pokémon trainer’ (“a _cute_ one”), but he left with the memory of a breathless grin, and a fitting name to the person he’d just met.

Also the knowledge in the back of his mind that _Lance_ deemed him _cute_.

Keith tried to keep the dopey smile off his face, avoiding the curious glances from his nosey brother (who he was still plotting revenge on), and sticky-beak co-workers, but inherently, much to his embarrassment, couldn’t.

 _Christ_... the things pretty boys do to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This Writer Thrives Off Kudos & Comments 
> 
> Feed The Writer :)
> 
> Find me:  
> Tumblr @/paladudelance  
> Instagram @/onlinemangata


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